


Blood Singer

by Caden_Parker (orphan_account)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: 1800's England, AU, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Bisexual Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Bisexual Emma Swan, Blood Drinking, Dark Fantasy, Electroconvulsive Therapy, F/F, Flashbacks, Gothic, Historical Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, Hopelessly in love Regina, Hypocritical Hook, Inspired by The Vampire Chronicles, Jealous Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Killing, Lesbian Sex, Lesbian Vampires, Magic, Memory Alteration, Misdiagnosing, Misunderstanding Mental Health, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Original Character(s), Period Piece, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Portal jumping, Random Violin Playing, Sexuality, Societal Pressures, Swan Queen - Freeform, Telepathy, The Enchanted Forest (Once Upon a Time), The Vampire Soulmate AU that no one asked for, Vampire version of Soulmates, Vampires, split worlds, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-04 10:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20469290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Caden_Parker
Summary: "I'm—I'mwhat?" Emma blinked owlishly, staring dumbly at the cloaked woman before her."My Blood Singer, darling. The vampire equivalent of what you humans refer to as Soulmates. In the dark, things can be felt which, by the light of day, seem inconceivable to the mind. I know this, which is why I tell you now: You are my destiny, as you always have been."





	Blood Singer

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: All characters herein (aside from my own) are products of 'Once Upon A Time.' Ergo, ABC owns them. Sadly.
> 
> Author's Note: Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) was not invented until the 1930's. I've taken creative liberties concerning this fact, as it better suites the vibe of the story I'm trying to tell. I am by no means a historian, so take what I write regarding ECT, and medical practices of the time, with a grain of salt.

_Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence._   
_ **~Edgar Allen Poe — Eleonora** _

BEDFORD LUNATIC ASYLUM _**— England, 1889 **_

  
The screams of the tortured and depraved did nothing to slow Victor Whale's brisk walk down the shadowed corridor. The doctor's heart had desensitized long ago to the woes of the mentally insane. His body had followed suit, had ceased producing the side effects of fear which had plagued him so vehemently as a novice some fifteen years before; night-terrors, from which he'd awoken sticky with sweat and blindly thrashing, intent on fighting the wild-eyed demon turned human. His wife declared him mad — more machine than man — for he carried out his work with methodical indifference. With his eyes fixed intently on the chart in his hand, he spoke to the woman on his left. His voice possessed a pleasant lilt despite his role, which sufficiently bewildered his patients, causing them to look at him as though _he _had more cause to be in a cell than they. "What have we today, Nurse? A delusional one, is it?"

"Aye, sir. Female. Five-and-twenty. Claims she has visions o' the past. Husband brought 'er in three days past. Shame 'er mind's gone, really. She has such a pretty face. Morphine only calms 'er for a spell — then she's back to spewin' nonsense." She tsked. "Poor lamb."

"Yes," Whale drawled unsympathetically. "Unfortunate indeed." The room they entered was large, curved windows filled the space with pale morning light, only serving to accentuate the eeriness of the place. Shadows from elm trees danced on gray-painted walls, reminding the doctor briefly of a dying man's skin. He cast his eyes — inscrutable and stolid — to the young woman lying stone-faced in a bed of restraints. Worn leather cuffs bound her wrists and feet. Remnants of dried tears stained her cheeks. She refused to look at him, her gaze remained fixed on a swaying elm obscured by a window. He cleared his throat. "Emma Nolan-Jones? I'm Dr. Whale." Silence. "Bouts of severe melancholia," he read in a murmur, consulting the chart. "Prone to self-isolation... Moral indecency in respects to the fairer sex..." He sighed. "Emma, why don't you tell me of these visions, hmm?" 

She would spit were there any moisture left in her mouth. _Killian. _He'd been so poised in the face of it all — the black carriage, come to take his crazed wife, the white coats fluttering as the men inside them restrained her — so indomitable. _"Do try to see it my way, love,"_ he'd sneered. _"What man wants a wife who talks of a phantom as if she's real?" _

"Come now, dearie," the plump nurse entreated. "The good doctor just wants to help ye." The blonde bit back a bitter laugh, her gaze fluttering to Whale's face. Empty forests, her eyes were, with a spark of resentment buried, like a pearl beneath waves. Indignation, she knew, was futile; nevertheless, an unpleasant smile formed on her lips. 

"Regina." The name fell from her easily, softly, like a spontaneous kiss. Whale frowned. "Her name. The name of my _phantom_, as my husband calls her," Emma elaborated, lip curling in spite. 

"Mm," the doctor replied noncommittally. Silence fell as his pen scratched across paper. "And what is your... _association_ with this_ 'Regina'?_" 

"In my visions, she looks at me as if... as if she loves me..." A shared look passed between the doctor and the nurse as she spoke; the blonde, having turned back to the window, missed it. Pity in the eyes of one, impassiveness in the gaze of the other. "We've met before," she continued, "I know we have. I just can't remember when, or why." 

"When did these hallucinations begin? After a marital spat, perhaps? Be precise, please." Emma turned to glare at him. "Well?" he prompted dryly, eyes expectant. She didn't reply. She didn't know_ when_, exactly. She just knew that she had begun to gradually shrink from her husband's touch, feeling a nameless discontent when his fingers danced over her skin. It wasn't _him_, per say, for she had thought him a decent man, if a little too fond of drink, until her forced admission into this place; she had simply fallen out of love with him. Then, brown eyes had started appearing in her dreams. A woman's gaze — soft, but passionate and beckoning, saying:_"I am the thing you are missing. Come, come away..." _Slowly, piece by piece, the woman formed, affixing herself so firmly in the blonde's mind that she had questioned her own lucidity. "S_uch confusion in your eyes," _the woman had said the night before Killian had deemed her an unfit wife, her voice deep and comforting, her hand placed upon her cheek. Emma remembered shivering beneath her fingers, and being puzzled by it. How can one shiver beneath an apparition's hand? "_You don't remember me, do you, mon chéri? You will, in time..." _Whale cleared his throat. The blonde blinked, met his eyes silently. "Hettie? Begin the treatment, please."

The nurse nodded and stepped forward. For the third time, Emma's gaze settled on the unfamiliar machine beside her. It was similar in size to a sewing machine, but knobs, and an electric gauge, told her it was anything but. Hettie dipped what appeared to be curved wire with sponges on either end into a bucket of tepid water before placing the device on either side of the blonde's temple. "Don't be frightened," she said softly, seeing the rapid rise and fall of the young woman's chest. Tears formed again in the corners of the blonde's eyes; fear and anger in equal measure. A wet, thick, rough cloth was placed at her lips. "Bite this." She did, until her jaw ached. 

"The shocks will trigger a balance of the humors," Whale intoned. Emma squeezed her eyes shut. She _wasn't _mad. She held no resemblance to Rochester's hysterical, attic-dwelling wife — and this_ wasn't_ ethical! _Damn them all, _she thought, the leather of her restrains creaking as she turned her hands into white-knuckled fists. "The switch, please, Hettie. Three...Two...One..."

_/*/*/*_

_  
Emma, this is Regina." _The woman who knelt before her was clad in form-fitting plate; a cloak of solid white billowed outward from her shoulders, marking her as a knight of the realm. Her raven hair was plaited in a simple braid, and though her head was bowed, Emma noted the tan outline of her down-turned jaw. _"She is to be your personal guard," _her mother continued, ignoring her daughter's tight-lipped grimace. "_Your father and I think it best, given your... inclination to adventure." _

_"Meaning you wish to leash me to the side of this well-meaning dolt out of fear, because I can't be trusted." _ The knight smirked. _I see the tales of the Princesses' sharp tongue are true indeed, _she thought, content with the knowledge that she was serving not a dull-witted young woman, but a competent would-be ruler. 

The Queen bristled. _"Regina is hardly incompetent! Your father would never call her to his side in wartime otherwise." _

_"Look at me, then, Knight," _Emma prompted. _"My advisers tell me wit can be seen in the gaze — Shall we see if they've lied?" _Regina raised her head, met the blonde's eyes evenly. Emma was struck silent, for a moment, by the intensity of the dark gaze. 

_"Well Highness? Have they lied?" _Regina questioned teasingly, voice like smoke. 

The Princess felt her mouth go dry. _"They have not." _

_"We've reached an agreement, then," _the brunette grinned._"I'm pleased Your Highness approves." _ She did not, wholeheartedly. The manner in which she'd obtained the knight's services still rankled, but she found herself unable to voice opposition in the presence of her family, and the woman's smirking mouth.

_/*/*/* _

Regina drank without thought from the man's neck. He'd been the gruff, philandering sort — the kind Regina hated. There'd been nothing especially significant about him, save his drunkenly boisterous character; the serpentine gleam in his eyes when a young barmaid approached to refill his tankard. She felt placated in having rid the world of him, though the taste of his blood was vile in her mouth. It tasted of alcohol and fat, making her wince as she drank. Usually, she preferred the blood of women, but she had been thirsty, and in that regard she could not afford to be choosy. 

Drawing back, she inspected the puncture wounds with a critical, practiced eye. They were low on his collarbone — she covered them easily with his tunic. The average onlooker would see only a lout, dead from intemperance. No investigation would be prompted. Nodding to herself, she stood, pulling her cloak tighter about her shoulders to shield herself from rain. 

Warmed with blood, she looked almost human. Her cheeks possessed a rosy tint, and her veins were once more noticeable beneath her skin. Yet still there was an unnatural beauty about her, as always; an aura of quiet darkness — a _pull_, as it were — that humans felt compelled to indulge despite themselves. Indeed Regina, with her ageless eyes, had the look of one who knew many things, and refused to speak of many more.

Invigorated, she left the dead man — his pockets now empty of coin — to his eternal sleep. Stepping from the shadowed alcove into the streets of London, she pulled a cigarette and match from her breast-pocket, lightening it as she walked. Perhaps she could find an inn; she was in the mood for wine. 


End file.
